


A Chance Encounter

by tristesses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Fear Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padma sees something she shouldn't have, and is punished for it. [Underage character is 16.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 11/29/2008 for the prompt "pharmacopobia".

_Flesh is weak,_ the Dark Lord says, his lip curling, _and you must not give in to its temptations._

 _No,_ Lord, Barty agrees, kneeling in the cold dirt at his Master’s feet.

 _I will trust you to do this,_ he whispers through snakelike lips, _and I trust you will succeed. My most faithful of servants._

Barty bows his head under the Dark Lord’s palm; swathed in black at his side, Bellatrix eyes Barty with death-lidded eyes. She is not pleased by his usurping of her position, but it doesn’t matter; she is not the creature he caters to now, nor does he bow to her beauty despite his lusts and excesses, ravenous for a scrap of flesh or sex under the thin veil of his sanity.

(Bellatrix has a dastardly allure, ripe with new curves to complement the dangerous edges Azkaban gave her. It is difficult to keep from staring.)

 _Barty_ , the Dark Lord chides. _You are straying._

 _My Lord,_ he says, and he is truly sorry.

 _Receive your punishment,_ says the Dark Lord, and raises his wand.

Barty accepts _Crucio_ like communion.

  
**. . .**   


The pain of betraying the Dark Lord is agonizing, worse than the Cruciatus Curse or any other elegant torture the Death Eaters are so adept at developing, but if he spends too long in this blood traitor’s skin Barty will go mad and start tearing at the body he’s stolen until his real self bleeds through the rips. At night, alone – just sometimes, when he’s certain he won’t be seen – he lets his medicine brew longer than necessary and assumes his true shape in the privacy of his office. It’s sweet relief, a freedom from the tension that bows his shoulders as he plays this charade of identities (but he plays it gladly; anything for his Lord and Master).

Now he watches the Polyjuice roil in its cauldron; it’s ready for consumption, but he won’t pour it into his hip flask. Not yet. The minutes are rolling past and he can feel the vibration deep in his bones as they realign, readjust, minute changes now, larger ones later. A shiver rushes down his spine; his skin erupts in goosepimples. In the air he can smell his sweat, dank and musky, the same in this body as in his real one. Times like this he wishes he’d paid attention in Potions; this scent could give him away when he changes back into the blood traitor, huge and ponderous, not lithe like his true body. The change rests on his tongue like sweets. It’s happening.

 _Now._

The plates of his skull shift and roll, cracking as they align; his skin lightens, smoothes; the pressure on his developing eye increases exponentially until the false one pops out of the socket; the peg-leg, gone, scars, gone, replaced by the long bones and flesh of his real self.

Barty shrugs out of the giant shaggy robes; they’re useless to him now. The cold of the air bites his skin, a jolt into reality; every time is startling and beautiful. He strokes his face, narrow and hollow with sharp cheekbones, ruffles his dark hair, runs his hands down his ribs, stroking every divot between the bones, cups himself – his real self, for pleasure is intensely more satisfying now than as the other – oh, it’s delicious like this. Absolutely wonderful.

Is it worth the guilt? (Maybe.)

His skin prickles, pierced by eyes. (Is the Dark Lord watching? Judging? Condemning?)

He whips around and glares fiercely around the room, ready to throw himself to the ground in abject shame if his instinct is true, but there is only silence.

No, wait: a breath, so quiet and dagger-sharp, like the skipping of a heartbeat. Another, frightened and fast. It’s distinctly feminine, a girl’s fear, perhaps some young second-year creeping into his office on a dare – or an older girl, slinking around the corridors on long legs, seeking for a story to tell her friends back in their room.

A predatory smile crawls onto his face.

“Won’t you come out and play?” he singsongs, gripping his wand in one hand, turning to the wardrobe looming ominously in the corner. “Little girl, oh girl, won’t you let me know who you are?”

(Behind the slightly-cracked door of his office, to his left and a little back, a movement, like someone ready to leap.)

“Trust me,” he croons, “I won’t hurt you – _at all!_ ”

He snaps his wand at the door and it slams open, nearly crushing the dark child behind it before she darts away with a chirp of fear, keeping close to the wall and the shadows. She’s carrying her own wand in one hand, and when he squints he can see a shield charmed in the air around her, the level of the spell marking her as a sixth year or higher. Clever girl, though, to use it; the charm will fool most warding spells, except the Darkest and most complex.

Sadly for her, it won’t have any effect on the snaring charm ten paces from his door.

Barty can hear her breathing, nearly hyperventilating; she’s so afraid, the tastes of her sweat and panic slick in the air. He steps into a pair of black trousers, taking his time, allowing her fear to build as she hangs in the corridor, suspended upside down by a ghostly glowing spell-cord, her world inverted and so much stranger than it should be. She flails – he can hear her palms smack the walls – but she can’t free herself, not unless she knows the counter-spell, which she doesn’t; it’s Dark magic and far out of the realm of a Hogwarts student. Barty waits, stroking his wand absently, until she utters a gasping sob and begins to cry. She’s ready; he goes to her, leaning against the stone wall and smirking at her terrified face.

It is Padma Patil, strung up by an ankle, her jumper caught around her breasts, exposing a smooth strip of dark skin. He scrutinizes her, noting her eyes flicking to the tattoo on his left arm, the tears tracking mascara dark down her forehead. Her nose is overly strong, her brows unplucked and a little thick, but her body is that of a woman’s and her skin is clear and smooth. She is silent, dangling before him, eyes dark and full of vindictive fire and just a bit of fear. Barty likes the way that looks. He runs his tongue over his teeth idly, and flicks his wand. She drops to the ground headfirst, barely catching herself with her hands; something cracks and she cries out in pain. Barty rolls her on her back with his foot, wand pointed at her face.

“Into the office,” he says quietly, “and don’t you dare scream.”

She doesn’t move from her position, just glares at him, a false show of courage. He prods her again, then kicks the wrist she’s cradling sharply. She jerks away with a short cry, and staggers to her feet.

“Good girl,” he says, with a devilish grin. “Isn’t that much easier than disobeying me? I _am_ your professor, after all.”

  
**. . .**   


As she cowers on the floor of Moody’s office, Padma takes stock of her injuries. Her left wrist is throbbing, and there’s a nasty grating sensation when she tries to move it, but she’s mostly in one piece. No wand, though, she dropped it in the corridor. He must have it. He – who is he? She has no idea, but that dark tattoo glaring ominously from his left arm told her enough. Oh Merlin, a Death Eater, what if he kills her?

Be calm, Patil, she tells herself. Be reasonable. (She presses her cheek to the cold stone floor and tries to control her racing thoughts.) Analyze the situation, like during tests, you handle stress well. Think. _What are you going to do?_

A wand presses into her spine, and she lets out a whimper, quite unexpectedly, then a warm weight settles over her, he’s straddling her back, his wand now jabbing at the delicate hollow at her jaw line, behind her ear.

“So, Miss Patil,” he hisses in her ear, “care to tell me what you’re doing in my office? Don’t lie, or it’ll be fifty points from Ravenclaw.” This is punctuated by a little giggle, manic and dangerous.

“I was just trying to get to the library – ” she begins, but he twists his wand savagely against her skin.

“ _Lies_ ,” he accuses. “One more chance.”

“Let me go, then,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything but you have to let me go.”

He shifts above her, placing a hand between her shoulder-blades, stroking her with his thumb.

She can’t repress a shiver at his touch.

“Perhaps,” he drawls, “if I’m feeling nice.” He leans over her, mouth by her ear, and whispers, “And that lies in your hands. It’s your choice, Miss Patil. Tell me everything.”

“You drink Polyjuice Potion,” she stammers. Her voice is too shaky, she sounds weak. “In your flask, I mean, not alcohol. I could smell it, it was too bitter, too strong. I looked it up in the library – I knew something was wrong. So I – followed you, for two weeks, and nothing happened, and I thought I was wrong – ”

“Until tonight.”

“Yes.” Her whisper is faint.

“How serendipitous.” He shifts, stretching across her body, pressing her to the ground, and wraps one arm around her neck. Their proximity makes Padma shake; he is a full-grown man, and she is just a girl, and the vital differences between them suddenly seem more important than the brand upon his arm. This is threatening in a way Padma has never experienced before.

“The Dark Lord has told me to resist temptation.” His voice is dark, silky, rustling like lace against her ear. “Carrying out my task is my foremost responsibility – ” he hisses almost snakelike on the sibilant syllables, “ – and I must not be distracted by anything,  
even lovely little morsels like you.”

Suddenly she is painfully aware of every intimate place he’s touching her right now.

“But even the most faithful servant must stray sometimes,” he continues, and sounds truly regretful. His arm tightens around her throat, his breath quickens, and oh something is prodding her back, and he nuzzles into her dark hair, and he murmurs, “In the end, Padma, I will blame you.”

His teeth close around her earlobe and his hands slide under her jumper, nails scraping her skin, and she shrieks and writhes and nearly bucks him off but when she flips onto her back she catches a glimpse of his wild-eyed countenance and the flick of his wand as he hisses _Incarcerous_ and her wrists are bound above her head. He never tries to kiss her and she’s glad, for she’d go mad if he did. Instead, he bites and licks at her neck, not delicately or like lovebites but as if he wants to tear her apart, leaving crescent teeth marks in the muscle of her shoulder.

The rasp of her wool jumper against her skin is, for some reason, the sensation that drives her to silent tears; it’s the same feeling she gets every day, pulling it over her head, it’s comforting and lumpy and Parvati knitted it for her last Christmas and the knowledge that now she will forever associate his touch with it infuriates her, kills her with anger.

“You’re a bastard,” she hisses, and he just laughs and says, “Yes, I am, aren’t I?”

He lowers his mouth to her nipples, oddly tender, catching one lightly between his teeth and teasing it with his tongue, and the sensation shoots sparks through her nervous system, joining the coil of anger and adrenaline churning in her gut. Now he strokes her skin, sending ripples of shivers through her body, rolling the nub of her other nipple between thumb and forefinger, the light caressing touch a stark contrast to his abuse before. It’s disorienting, she doesn’t know what to think, it tickles and she wants to sob out loud but when she opens her mouth she moans instead, low and sensual. It turns into a gasp of pain as he pinches her skin brutally, drawing blood with his nails.

“Not quite the good girl you pretend to be, are you?” he jeers, and yanks her pyjama bottoms to her knees. “Or perhaps you’re far too good,” and he drags a finger along the crotch of her knickers and she whimpers and arches her back to his touch and why the hell isn’t she fighting anymore?

“Stop it,” she whispers, then repeats herself loudly, but it lacks any real feeling and he does nothing but mock her voice and her little moans, delving under her cotton knickers and stroking. She raises her hips to improve his access and hates herself for it.  
When he withdraws his hand she hisses in anger and he hears, smirks at her as he licks her juices off his fingers.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had anything but a Mudblood whore?” he asks her conversationally, and the use of that word makes her flinch. “You’re young – ” he’s fumbling with his trouser buttons now, kick him in the face Padma you worthless bitch, “ – but you are so _pure._ I can taste it.”

He’s inside her, she screams and tries to push him away but her hands are fastened and useless, he grinds deep and swift and unsteady and buries his face against her collarbone, grunting; her clit rubs against his pubic bone with each thrust and a low pressure is building deep where he hits her, she’s making little needy noises and writhing against him; his moans are unbalanced and shriller, reedy cries; he’s _inside_ her and she can’t stand it and she’s going to explode but he does first and he nearly screams his release, a Death Eater undone, hectic and trembling over her inert body. Coherent thought is lost to her; she doesn’t know how to cope with what is happening to her. The Death Eater – she still has no idea who he is – looks at her wide eyes, and sighs.

“I have to kill you now,” he says, then pauses. “Unless – yes, much easier. Less messy.”

His expression, detached and cold, is the last thing Padma sees before he presses his wand against her temple.

 _“Obliviate.”_

  
**. . .**   


Barty is on the cold dirty floor of the Dark Lord’s house. He is screaming, but his throat is too raw for noise to escape. Blood trickles in a slow stream from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth; he’s bitten his tongue nearly in two. Bellatrix hasn’t moved her wand from his prone figure for ten minutes.

The pain of betraying the Dark Lord is equal to a thousand lashings of _Crucio_. Barty is willing to take all of them, sear the lust from his body. Later, though, as he lies in the dirt and struggles to hold on to his sanity, he will see Bellatrix, smiling evilly at his pain, and he will want her. No punishment will ever be strong enough to cure him of that.


End file.
